


Recovery and Relapse

by Potato_Faktory



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 10:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17548181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potato_Faktory/pseuds/Potato_Faktory
Summary: Jeff the killer, after a long four-years and taking the lives of 200+ people- all of which he claims to have been less than innocent- was captured.A less fantastical look at the killer, and possibly what he'd be like when finally caught.





	Recovery and Relapse

Jeff the killer, after a lomg four-years of being on the run, and taking the lives of 200+ people- all of which he claims to be less than innocent- was captured. He was taken to a high security mental institution, for the criminally insane. Being as infamous as Jeff was, doctors were reluctant to take any action to help the young killer get better, but as much reluctance they held, there was an equal amount of excitement, not to mention obligation to their job. Jeff was almost a legend among those who dealt with the criminally insane in the mental health services. 

He seemed to live up to his infamy, as for the first month Jeff could not be approached unless he were heavily sedated. The few times he wasn't successfully sedated he almost managed to escape and during the attempted escapes Jeff took the lives of twelve employees, and three other patients. Eventually staff decided they couldn't continue loosing employees and patients alike, and moved Jeff to solitary. The only interaction with people he had was an employee bringing his meals, which mostly were pushed off the slot in the door and onto the hallway floor, or for hourly checkups since he had previously self mutilated. Check-ins in the day time were easy. Jeff would be asleep usually, but the late night, and early morning check-ins were disturbing, to say the least. Jeff would be screaming as loud as he could for as long as he could, usually screaming his voice gone. He'd go silent for a couple days, then continue his irate, and- as described by staff- feral screams.

This, though, didn't last long as Jeff constantly pushing away any food or drink given to him by the institution caused him to become weak, and sick after a surprisingly long fifty-two days, or for lame man's term, 7 and a half weeks. Staff realised he wasn't moving much, or screaming day and night anymore, and after four days of decision staff sent an armour equipped team into his solitary cell. He was brought to the on-site hospital as he was horribly ammaciated, and malnourished. Doctors took advantage of this situation, and began to regularly administer medication to the killer. Anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, alpha agnostics, pain killers and other things to counteract side effects of the other drugs. You name it, it was probably in his IV. All the drugs made him scarily docile. He would just sit there staring at nothing while his stay in the on-site hospital. He wouldn't fight, or even seem to acknowledge nurses and doctors that frequented his room. After about six weeks since treatments started he was taken back to the mental ward, allowed in the regular cells and given medication hourly. The medication was changed though. It was no longer taken into his bloodstream by IV, but was in pill-form. This did have a change in his behavior, him becoming responsive again to most things and people, which with him being in the regular cells made staff on edge for about a week before their nerves all seemed to settle.

He started to interact more with those who would bring him his medication, and meals. At first it was only small things, but eventually he would say small sentences rather than one worded responses. By his fifth month in the institution his appointed doctor began to work with him face-to-face each week rather than medical checkups once a month, with guards standing, waiting to take down the young killer if he tried anything. These weekly meetings were mostly the doctor talking to Jeff, and Jeff only looking to the doctor every now and then, mostly ignoring the man. 

"So Jeff," the doctor started, "My colleagues and I have been looking at you're file, and it's possible to make skin grafts." He explains what skin grafts are briefly. " Eighty percent of your body was severely damaged by your," he clears his throat, "accident. You do still have parts of your body that have flesh that could be used." The doctor tapped the bottom of Jeff's patient file on the steel table, seemingly satisfied with himself for no apparent reason. He raised his eyebrows at Jeff, gesturing for him to speak though not really expecting an answer, and continued. "Think about it, having most physical traces if your accident gone. Having a normal l-" 

"No." Jeff cut in.

"W-what?" The doctor was taken aback to get an immediate response from this patient. Mind you, the patient who says less in a week than some of the quietest patients did in a day.

" I said 'no', Doctor. I don't want a 'normal'". Jeff paced his words slowly.

The doctor sat perplexed for what seemed like a whole five minutes. Quickly thinking he scrambled to retrieve his notepad from a brown leather bag he had at his side, and began scribbling something on it. "You don't want the skin grafts?" The doctor asked looking up from his notepad awaitingly. 

Jeff turned to face the doctor fully. This was the first time he has done this, and the doctor scribbled again before looking up from his notepad to see Jeff's piercing blue eyes staring holes into him. 

" I am not normal, Doctor. What I've done cannot be whitewashed away, and won't. I will stay this way because I am a victim of my own, and all my victims can't come back to life. I won't change." 

The doctor sat staring. He was utterly speechless. This was the most Jeff had said for the entirety of his time in the institution, and it seemed he may be opening up. At least that's what the doctor thought. "Ah, is that so? Care to elaborate?" 

Jeff huffed out a sigh, and turned back away from the doctor.

'Damn.' the doctor thought. "So, that's a no?" 

Jeff slumped in his chair, now more so lying in his chair than sitting. 

The man sighed, "very well. I guess this ends this session. I'll see you again next week." He began packing his papers and files into his leather bag.

"I'm bored." Jeff started, startling the man somewhat. "Can I have paper and something to write, or draw with?" He didn't turn around as he asked, but he heard the man stop mid-action. 

"Uhh... I- I'm not sure you're allowed pens, or pencils, or the such." The doctors tone was unsure, and he looked out the small window in the door to his superior. "Just... Just a second." He then walked, bag in hand, to the door and stuck his head out. 

Jeff couldn't make out what the doctor was saying. He must've been too far, or the door was sound proof. He didn't know. Turning towards the door the doctor hung out of, Jeff could see he was making almost wild gestures. The doctor was motioning into the room, and presumably, at Jeff. 

Seconds later the doctor turned back into the room, closing the door behind him. "So, I spoke with my supervisor, and you could try joining the finger painting class." 

Jeff gave a deadpan stare. Finger painting? Really? What the fuck. How old did they think he was? Not only that, he seemed to be more competent than most patients. Granted, most patients here were too drugged up to care. Jeff sighed. "Fine." He groaned out. What's there to lose? At least he wouldn't be in his cell room all day.

The doctor elated, "Great! Tomorrow will be your first go at it, and if you want, and you don't do anything to have your privilege taken away, every Wednesday after you can go to the rec-room." 

Morning on Wednesday was as shitty as every other morning. The same routine. Pills and food, Jeff wouldn't eat much. Never did. He hated the food here. 

Sometimes he would think about his mom's cooking. That's something he had taken for granted. Shortly after he killed his parents he was stuck facing things he never had to think about before. Feeding himself, shelter, being that he was 13 when he became "Jeff the killer" he was still growing, and soon was outgrowing his clothes. He was forced to think more like a survivor, or that's what he thought, and though he was slowly but surely adapting to this new way of doing things, he did often miss having things like a soft bed, being able to clean his clothes whenever. Getting blood off of anything was such a chore, let alone off of clothes. But, this is what he had chosen, sorta, this was his doing, and he would be damned if he died from something like starvation. Thankfully he lived near many campgrounds. This was his saving grace.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote years ago, and just kinda forgot about. It's unfinished and I don't plan on continuing it in the future, but... Maybe you liked it? You got this far, so I'm guessing you did, but who knows. 
> 
> Not everything in this is grounded in reality, clearly, but it's a little more realistic than most fics I've seen.
> 
> Some of this stuff i knew about like medications that'd be used, but things like skin grafts I only have a vague knowledge on. 
> 
> So... Yea. Thanks for reading.


End file.
